


you're a holy fool all colored blue

by sleeponrooftops



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, that's all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-13 00:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11173593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: Sequel to:oh mercy, I implore.On the inhale, James decides that this life—lazy Sunday mornings, the persistent smell of bergamot, ink dark skin under his mouth, and Q breath’s across his bones—is worth infinitely more than all MI-6 has to offer.  On the exhale, M sentences him to certain death—months of deep undercover, endlessly dark days where Q’s voice won’t be in his ear, the post-Spectre tidying up that James thought they’d somehow avoided.





	you're a holy fool all colored blue

**Author's Note:**

> Notes—
> 
> i. THIS IS A SEQUEL. Please be sure to read _oh mercy_ first, or this will seem like you’re diving into the middle of something. Because you are.
> 
> ii. This is an interlude. I started writing the sequel to _oh mercy_ , and realized at about 13k that I’d started it in the wrong place. However, I really liked where it started, and then I had one of those brilliant moments in the shower, so this is how I’ve fixed starting in the wrong place. This takes place post _oh mercy_ , pre _oh love_. Because yes, there is a sequel, and it is coming soon after this. However, this is the in between. It’s rather short (in comparison), and it’s got absolutely no substance, but it’s the kind of fluff we don’t usually get in the 00q fandom, so here I am.
> 
> iii. The timeline for this is the two months after Spectre. That’s all I’m saying. The end will let you know where _oh love_ begins, and why, ultimately, this was necessary.

_You walk around with your hands out,_

_And I’ve never seen anyone so blind._

James Bond does not wake up.

 

He is asleep, and he is awake.  There is no in between, no fuzzy lines, no slow shift of limbs, and certainly no long yawns accompanied by an easy blink into the new day.  He does not lounge about, has never had breakfast in bed, and is often up before the sun.  Even when he was young, there were chores to be done, animals to take care of, and grounds to keep.  He was asleep, and then he was awake.  There was no time for dawdling or dragging of feet.  He spent his youth at boarding schools, and was always required to be up early for class or church.  After that, it was the Navy, briefly the Air Force, a touch of the Marines, and everything in between.  He did not watch sunrises, and he missed most sunsets.  He had never woken to the sound of the ocean lapping against a shore, but instead was already awake when he thought to listen for the sound of it.

 

Of course, there were brief moments where he forgot who he was, moments when he let himself grow content, and he would experience that myth of having a lie-in, of waking up to someone else, of feeling safe.  They weren’t often, and they didn’t last long when they did, but he had come in contact with those moments before.  Before his life now, he hadn’t woken up since Vesper, had simply been spending his life banishing the in between, running from even the possibility of moving slow.

 

“It’s possible,” a traitorously low voice rumbles through the mattress and straight up his spine, “that you think louder than I do, which, might I point out, is a feat in and of itself.  Truly marvelous.  You deserve—” a yawn shatters the word in half, “—a medal.”

 

“Of merit?” James asks.

 

“Of— _fortitude_.”

 

James lifts his head from the pillow, setting it back down so he can only see the world through one eye.  The other one is hidden in the confines of the pillow, a firm cloud of cotton and warmth.  His old flat was always standard-issue.  Whatever MI-6 provided, he slept in.  Whatever furniture happened to show up, he passed out in, alcohol nearby.  These pillows, though, he spent a good hour picking out.  They’re absurdly expensive, and he’ll never confess to how much he spent on them, but they’re sinfully comfortable, and he can already feel himself drifting again.

 

His other eye flutters shut, opens, closes again, opens, and then falls.  He dozes, letting himself be enveloped in warmth and the certainty that he’s safe here.  He is free to let his walls down, free to show his hand.

 

James has one arm tucked up beneath the pillow, wrapped beneath his head.  Though he’s lying on his side, his legs are splayed open, and a cat sleeps soundly between them.  Joyce, he thinks, is as close to his ass as she can get, and he can feel her purring vibrating through his thighs.  He’s almost too warm, but not quite, which makes it nearly impossible to stay awake.

 

His other arm is flung over Q’s—something.  He’s not quite sure, hasn’t really surfaced long enough to dissect which body part he’s touching.  He can feel one of Q’s feet, though, tucked beneath his leg, trying to steal his warmth, as always.  Keats, he’s almost certain is between them, balled up against Q’s chest.

 

“Hungry,” Q mumbles.  His mouth brushes against James’s jaw, or maybe it’s his nose, or hand.  James hasn’t the faintest.

 

He hums in response, blearily opening his one eye again.  Q is close, his eyes changing colors in the brilliant, golden sun wrapping around them.  They’re blue one second, green the next, grey when the sun disappears behind a wisp of cloud, and then vibrantly hazel with flicks of golden sunshine around the irises.

 

“I can cook,” James says.  His words slur together, and he wonders, far too briefly, if he was drugged.  He can’t remember the last time he was this slow to rouse.

 

Q’s gentle laugh exhales around him, and then his mouth—definitely his mouth this time—presses a soft kiss to his jaw.  “Stay in bed,” he whispers, “I’ll be back in a flash.”

 

“Ah ah,” James sings weakly, “Savior of the universe.”

 

Q’s laugh is a little louder the second time before his nose—James can feel his breath shush out along his throat—thuds against his jaw.  James smiles, and closes his eyes again.  He listens to Q have a quiet, but stern conversation with Keats, and then he’s depositing the cat on James’s hip.  He curls up, meows in protest when Q gets out of bed, and promptly starts purring once he’s settled.

 

James sighs, and flexes his hand across the mattress.  He’d picked out this bed, as well, had taken an entire day while Q was preoccupied at work.  He remembers tying a note to Joyce’s collar, remembers the noises of horror and disbelief she kept making every time she moved, and the note moved with her.  He remembers pressing Q into this mattress a day later and mapping the planets on his back with his mouth.

 

He doesn’t know how, but the next time James is aware of the world, it’s because the bed has dipped, and Q’s voice is back, “Oh hush, I put food out for you.  Stop being a drama queen.  Shoo.”

 

The warm weight of Keats leaps off James’s hip, shortly followed by Joyce stretching and then padding off to join her brother for breakfast.  James stirs, forces his arms beneath him, and pushes up onto his elbows.  “Morning,” he says.  His voice is a little rough, and he’s sure his mouth tastes positively wretched, but Q still leans forward to kiss him awake.

 

When he leans back, he holds out his hands, and James wakes in earnest, shaking off the last dredges of sleep as he rolls over until he can sit.  “What’s this?” he asks, staring at the spread Q’s brought in.

 

There are two plates balanced on a tray, filled with scrambled eggs flecked with red pepper flakes, strips of perfectly cooked bacon, a small mountain of roasted potatoes, and a halved grapefruit each.  A bowl of diced melon sits between them, with two tall glasses that James grins at.  “Mimosa’s?” he says, taking one of them.  He sniffs at his first before he sips, and Q grins at his groan.  “Bloody _hell_ , Q,” James mutters delightedly.

 

Q sets the tray in front of them, his legs crossed beneath the duvet.  There’s also a mug of coffee and tea, respectively, though James is far too enticed by the mimosa to go anywhere near caffeine yet.  They eat breakfast in bed, relaxed against the headboard, their shoulders touching, and not worrying about the time at all.

 

There’s music playing softly in the distance, one of Q’s obscure indie records that he loves and James pretends to hate just to get a rise out of him.  A bruise has bloomed on the back of one of Q’s shoulders, which James runs a thumb over when he notices it.  Last night is starting to slot back into place, his deep slumber washing away.

 

Q had a rare full weekend off, and after spending all of Saturday in Rome, they flew back for dinner at their favorite Indian place where they ordered so much food, Q would have takeaway for _days_.  After, drunk on curry and whiskey, they tumbled into bed and spent half the night breaking each other apart at the seams.  And now, here they are, and James can’t believe his luck.

 

Q is wearing an old, faded Jurassic Park shirt, and nothing but briefs beneath the duvet.  His head is tipped back, baring the long line of his throat.  His eyes are closed behind his glasses, his mouth curving up in a subconscious smile, and one of his hands is absentmindedly tracing a circle over James’s knee.  James is naked, as he almost always is, the duvet pooling in his lap and hiding how badly he wants Q right now.  His broad chest is littered with scars that Q has laid reverent kisses on, his fingers are lined with calluses that Q says show his true character, someone whom he is happy to spend the rest of his life with, and if that hadn’t given James every reason to flee the scene of the crime, he’s not sure what else he’s waiting for.  It hadn’t, though.  Q had whispered it one night, with nothing but the moonlight spilling over them, tucked the words neatly into James’s palm before he took one of those callused fingers into his mouth, and James’s response had been to pull them closer together.

 

The rest of his life, he muses.  He’d never considered what the rest of his life might look like, but every second spent in this bed reminds him that he has something, _someone_ to spend the rest of his life looking forward to.

 

“So.  Loud,” Q says, punctuating the word with a finger tapped sharply against James’s temple.  “What are you thinking about?” he asks when James turns his sharp gaze on him.

 

“You,” James says simply.

 

Q rolls his eyes.  “That’s a given,” he says.

 

“Cheeky bastard,” James says, and tips his head down to kiss Q’s cotton shoulder.  He drops his forehead there next, just breathing him in.

 

He doesn’t know how this is possible, how he’s been gifted with this perfect, slow morning, and how next Sunday, they’ll do it all over again.  Next Sunday, they’ll be having brunch at Desmond’s, and then attending a youth girl’s soccer match before they inevitably stop at a bookstore to wander about for at least an hour, and then a café to people watch and bemoan the end of their weekend.

 

Every Sunday, when not in the field, James spends waking up, and he cherishes every moment he gets.  They both know this could be their last Sunday together, that someday, one of these missions is going to kill him, that this is temporary at best.  Sometimes, though, he likes to imagine that they’ll have a hundred Sundays left, maybe a thousand.  He likes to imagine that Q will teasingly yank a grey hair one Sunday morning, or that someday, he’ll die peacefully in this bed.

 

Before, he just kept hoping for another Sunday, or trying not to be wistful about the ones that he’d missed.  But now, right now, with Q’s bergamot and lavender and sleepiness wrapping around him, with Keats trotting back into the room ready for a post-breakfast bath, with Q’s favorite book on his bedside table so he can reread it and fondly shake his head at his past self for buying it, with the warmth of the sun and the promise of a cloudless day and a life of possible Sundays stretching out in front of him, James makes a decision.

 

He wants endless Sunday mornings with Q.  He’s only three years away from the mandatory retirement age for MI-6, the longest any double oh has likely ever survived, and he’s ready to put it all behind him.

 

“Q,” he says, lifting his head.

 

Q hums distractedly.  He’s frowning at his phone, flicking too fast through a file for James to catch anything pertinent.  He taps out of the file, into another email, and his frown deepens.

 

James waits, knows that Q will share whatever M’s sent over when he’s finished going through it.  His body thrums with anticipation of his secret, though, wants to fill the room in great gasps of joy.

 

He remembers wondering once, if that was what this was, if _joy_ was something Q brought him, remembers being baffled when he realized that it wasn’t just that, but something more, something they didn’t speak aloud, but instead through fond glances and soft smiles.

 

“Shit,” Q says very quietly.

 

James glances at the phone, sees his moniker at the top, and closes his eyes.  “Where?” he asks.

 

“Iceland,” Q says.

 

“How long?”

 

“Indefinitely.”  James doesn’t open his eyes.  His Sundays start to slip away.  “Deep undercover.  You’ll be dark for most of it.”

 

“Q,” he starts to say.

 

Q fingers wrap around his jaw, and James blinks his eyes open, finds Q closer than he was expecting.  “What do we say to the god of death?” he quotes.

 

James fights a grin, and loses.  Instead, he kisses Q, hard and wanting and a little desperate.  “Not today,” he presses the words into his mouth.

 

“Come back to me,” Q demands.

 

“How long?” James asks, though it’s a different question this time.

 

Q doesn’t open his eyes when James pulls away.  He watches him carefully stow his sorrow away for later consideration, watches him inhale strength, and then, only then, he opens his eyes.  “As long as it takes,” Q says, “Though I’d prefer a heads up if you plan on dying.  To get started on the logistics of the whole second funeral thing.”

 

“I’m getting cremated this time,” James says, and smirks when Q tips away from him, laughing freely.

 

He knows what this mission is.  It’s been two months since Spectre, and now that things are starting to settle, M needs to quietly get rid of him.  He’ll be sent on a deep undercover mission with no intention of survival.  It stings like betrayal a little, but he understands.  And if he’s being sent to die, if this is his last Sunday with Q for the rest of his life, he’s going to bloody well enjoy it.

 

James throws Q onto his back, and swallows his laugh.

 

——

 

Later, after Q has fallen asleep with his glasses digging into his cheekbone, the history channel whirring quietly in the background, and two cats warring for space on the sofa with him; after James has dragged him to bed because the last time he tried to carry Q, he caught every red light for a week; after he takes a moment to stare at him, splayed out in bed, his dark hair a mess under the moonlight, Keats perched watchfully between his shoulders, and tries to ignore the ache behind his sternum; later, James leaves.

 

He has two errands to run, but he pauses in the cold, wintry air outside.  It’s late January, almost February, and he loves this time of the year.  Q prefers autumn, when the air is crisp, the leaves crunch underfoot, and the fading sun smells like spices and fruit.  He likes the winter for its layers to hide in, the paleness of the sun, and the sharp whip of wind that forces one to stay awake.

 

The Martin is parked a few spaces down, and James stops lingering, striding briskly down the sidewalk to slip behind the wheel.  There’s no one on the streets this late, and though he’s loathe to leave Q on potentially their last night together, he won’t have time tomorrow to discreetly put things in order.

 

His first stop is with an old contact, someone he never thought he’d need to meet with again.  And yet, here he is, well past midnight, waiting out under a starless sky.

 

James listens to the sound of several locks disengaging followed by a single deadbolt, and then the door creaks open.  The man on the other side grunts at him, and walks away.  James follows him in, shutting the door behind him as the man disappears into a room on the right.  He keeps his gloves on, tucking his hands back in his pockets as he follows him.

 

“A bit of cloak and dagger these days, is it?” he asks as he steps into a cluttered living room.

 

There are stacks of paper strewn about everywhere, which look harmless enough if he didn’t know there were guns hidden under a few of them.  A mug of tea is steaming on the mantle, above a crackling fireplace and below several monitors hung on the walls, showing different camera angles of the inside and outside of the building.

 

“Only when clients come knocking at the witching hour,” the man mutters, settling in an old armchair.  There’s a small table in front of him, two papers sitting next to each other.  James comes to stand on the other side of the table.

 

“It’s barely past 1AM,” he says.

 

The man squints at him.  “Don’t be smart with me,” he snaps, “Review, and sign.”

 

James withholds a sigh, and lifts one of the documents.  He thinks of Q’s voice in his ear, getting snippy with him about his reading pace, but he takes his time, checks that everything is as requested.  After a few solid minutes of silence, he nods, and sets it back down.

 

“Who is it this time, then?” the man asks, “Not that woman again, I hope.”

 

“She’s dead,” James says succinctly.

 

“Hardly an easy task, executing this without a name,” the man says.  James does not respond, and there’s a moment where the man doesn’t bend to the will of his cold, empty blue eyes, but then, finally, he bows his head and scribbles his signature across the bottom.  “You lot were always full of unnecessary mystique,” he mutters as he leans back in his armchair.

 

“Are they finished?” he asks.

 

“The last will and testament of a one James Bond,” the man says, shuffling the two documents together and holding them up.  “Without a beneficiary,” he adds, “and thus a pointless thing to execute in the event of your timely death.”

 

“Again,” James says, and takes the documents, “Not your concern.  Thank you.”  He folds the two documents in threes, tucks them into his jacket, and retrieves a small envelope.  “For your discretion,” he says, and drops the envelope on the table.

 

“Better all be there,” the man says, lifting the envelope.

 

James is gone before he looks up again.

 

His next stop is a familiar one, though he’s never been inside this particular home, nor has he ever visited this M quite this late at night.  Still, he’s unsurprised when M barely looks up when he efficiently breaks into his home.  Rather, he’s at the kitchen island, a laptop in front of him, and a tumbler of whiskey in hand.  He lifts the tumbler in greeting as James leans against the doorway.

 

“Admittedly, I thought I might find you in here sooner than this.”

 

“I try not to make breaking the law a habit,” James says.  M sips his whiskey disbelievingly.

 

“What can I do for you, 007?  Please make it quick, whatever it is.  My children are sleeping, and I’d rather they didn’t wake to find a bulldog in the house.”

 

James offers him a twisted grin before he pushes away from the doorway, takes long strides to step into the kitchen, and sets the folded documents down on the keyboard of his laptop.  “In the event that your secondary agenda with this mission is successful, please see that this is executed fully.”

 

M doesn’t offend him by saying he only has one objective with James’s assigned mission, to dismantle a convoluted operation, but instead gulps the last of his whiskey, sets the tumbler down, and unfolds the documents.  James steps back into the doorway, leans out of the light and against the frame.  M emits a small, surprised noise.

 

“All of it?” he asks, looking up at James.

 

“Everything,” James says, “The Skyfall estate, the inheritance, the pension—all of it.”

 

“To Q?” M confirms.  When James nods once, M says, “You do know he’s quite well off, yes?  This is rather—overdoing it, I think he’ll feel.”

 

James exhales through his nose, and remains impassive as he says, “The money isn’t solely for him, and he’ll know that.”

 

“Ah,” M says, looking back down at the documents.  “I imagine, combined, this might see quite a few young hopefuls off to university.”

 

“All of them, actually,” James says evenly.

 

M’s gaze snaps back up at him.  “Does he know about this?” he asks.

 

James straightens, looms in the doorway as he holds M’s gaze.  “In the event that retirement doesn’t come knocking first, he will.”

 

M sighs, folds up the documents, and closes his laptop over them.  He spares a moment to stare down at the secret he’s been given—MI-6’s deadliest assassin exposing the last living piece of his heart—and is treated with a single moment of weary regret.

 

“Good luck, 007.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh, it’s been so long! _Oh mercy_ was originally posted in July of 2016, so almost an entire year. That said, there was never supposed to be a sequel to that, so this may have come as a surprise. Unless you follow me on Tumblr, and then you’ll know that I’ve been sporadically talking about writing a sequel for that entire almost year.
> 
> Sequel? What? So, as I said before, this is an interlude. I am currently writing a real sequel, and by real, I mean about the same length as _oh mercy_. It will be called _oh love, remind me_ , and I’m at about 20k right now with the first part finished. It will be designed similarly to the first one in that each of the three parts signifies something specific—before, during, after. I’m not spoiling anything, so that’s all you’re getting for now. As for when it will be posted, I’m hoping to get the first chapter up next Sunday. It all depends on how writing the second part goes. If not next Sunday, definitely the one following it.
> 
> Thank you so much if you’re coming back after a year, or if you’re just finding this for the first time. I hope you enjoyed, and don’t forget to leave your thoughts!
> 
> Sequel: [oh love, remind me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11280729/chapters/25231557).


End file.
